patrick

it was cold today. she could feel it everywhere on the tabletop where she leave her glasses before she goes to bed; the edge of the basin where she usually supports herself with one hand while she brushes her teeth with another; the handrail that she clings on with whatever life that's left in her fragile bag of bones when she walks down the stairs. at the end of her hand where fingers were meant to be, she felt ice popsicles and there was so much frost building up in her hips which made walking down the stairs an impossible feat and when she managed to reach the end she felt as if she had conquered Mt Everest. she wished she had someone to blame had someone to complain to about the cold and everything that was astray but there was no one she could point her finger at because the man in the television had informed the nation that it was going to be freezing today and she had forgot to turn on the timer for the radiator the night before. and then, Patrick wasn't here.

she could blame Patrick for not reminding her about the cold for not turning on the timer for the radiator for not walking down the stairs with her for not making her her tea which she always woke up to for not running warm water in the basin before she went in for not handing her her glasses when she needed it for not holding her hands in his trying to warm it up. but you don’t and you can’t blame dead people can you?

Karen was there when she walked into the kitchen. Karen was the caretaker that would come in few times a day to prepare her meals and made sure she was alright otherwise. she didn't fancy Karen but she didn't dislike her either but Karen just could never make the tea at the right temperature like how Patrick always did. Karen moved around the kitchen swiftly and in a few minutes, had her breakfast ready. she didn't like that as well she preferred how Patrick worked in the kitchen how he would inch from one end to the other in that 5 feet wide space and how he’d turn around slowly every time and asked if she wanted extra sugar in her porridge or if she preferred honey instead. sometimes he would just turn around to ask something but halfway through turning around he'd forget what he wanted to ask so he'd just smile at her and that glow in his face never failed to warm her up. Karen was talking to her now but she couldn't hear her. she nodded and smiled and watched as Karen left and was slightly irked when the door slammed behind her. she remembered how Patrick would always take ages to close the door when he left making sure it didn't made too much noise or any noise at all. then for the rest of the morning she would brood over how life was before Patrick left.  

the doorbell rang. startled by it her eyes ran everywhere across the room and she noticed the set of house keys across the table.

"Patrick."

she blurted out and then within that split second she remembered and she burst into tears.

mountains are party hats for giants.

noise. no. sounds. many sounds happening at once. new acquaintances talking about their lives. how similar they really are is it still a conversation if one say and the next one rummage in her own life and find something that is as similar as it is? is that even a proper response? stories that get drowned in a sudden blast of laughter near where the ornamental tree stands and it's just random and many babblings and yadah yadah and then shrieks from the stairs something is happening there someone makes a fuss starts to shout and the other follows suit which breaks into another set of laughter and there are many conversations happening at once and concentration like an air filled balloon floats across the room without any direction here to there right to left sudden silence because the music stopped and the noise gradually grow again. let's runaway before it's too late run to where the mountains are runaway before tonight becomes yesterday runaway before the body breaks apart and becomes a million pieces like all the noise. 

but watch out! no don't run to the mountains there're giants living underneath there that eat runaways and travelers and wanderers and dreamers there's no place to hide because mountains are party hats for the giants did you know that? no? I thought so too why do I know? I saw the mountains move once and I saw confetti in the air I saw the fireworks I smelled the air that stinks off alcohol and meat and I heard the noise they made stomping along with the beats dancing away in the night under the moonlight and then before the sun comes up they go to bed with their party hats on. so don't run to the mountains run away from it because mountains are party hats for giants.

there are so many things happening now so many so many and there's an eerie tiredness freezing over me something that pulls my whole weight down and all my limbs become really heavy and my eyelids become heavy and then something holds it back from just closing entirely. I could sleep right here right now in this position and diffuse myself into the wall i can't take it anymore and I am angry at myself for even wanting to come here in the first place I don't know why but I feel so old tonight like i've never slept in a thousand years and I feel so tired I want to sleep.

the house host comes up and asks do you need anything? no thank you. and then a really strong forceful smile but she must have noticed the eyes that only look at the infinite dreamland somewhere ahead past the people past the walls past the mountains past these life stories and she walked away. I've secluded myself so much i have created a really wide space for myself in this small and compact living area. the noise hits back again and it starts to become unbearable so unbearable and all I want to do is just sleep right now.

strangers

lights turning red and yellow and green. the anticipation pervading the air on both sides of the road. the heavy paper bag sinking continuously to the ground the strings biting into the creases between the fingers it hurts. green. Hi. pink earphones. the world stopped for that tiny fraction of a millisecond and then everything crashes back again. fingers that hurt so much it felt like it was already bleeding. everything started to move behind and people walked by. excuse me. sorry. politeness that has lost its meaning that has evolved into a reflex something to say to not offend, to get out of trouble. that initial delicate feeling being washed away by the stream of people, being brushed off by shoulders and that stain of awkwardness probably now ten yards away. twenty. thirty. and then it doesnt matter anymore, does it? a face turns around and it's a face from the past. a reminder of naivety of adrenaline rushes of an era of many first things.

outside, a wind like a brush strokes gently along the street. someone pulls their coat closer. blow into your hands and start rubbing. poof a genie appears but fades away along with the wind that sends chills trickling down the spine and there's a little shiver. inside, an exchange of well-beings, and laughs that dont sound convincing at all. little talks about ambitions that never were, retracing past incidents and skimming upon the timeline when it was all too close to that point, concerns about what's going to happen next, the true reason of being a pescetarian and learning the word itself, christmas plans that reveal current relationships, an abrupt pause once in a while that is all too uncomfortable and an instantaneous reflex of looking at the phone or the action or feeding oneself cautiously. open your mouth as wide as possible it's a game of not touching the edges and then wipe off that imaginary stain on the corner of your mouth with the paper napkin. wow, this is really good. now, the next question.

there is something calming here in the underground. under-ground. tames the uneasiness and snaps you out of that what-if moment. there is a queer aftertaste inside. the laughs the smiles the casual talk and the hug among the crowd which almost felt like it would only have happened in a movie. the one that deserves a spotlight on a stage in a play. the one that should have had happened years ago. it is a funny feeling something that is good but tastes of irony and maybe in it a slight pinch of sadness and regret. like how Gordon puts it, a pinch of salt just to taste, nothing more, brings out the flavor in it. in what? and just before the question was answered, the smell of anticipation once again pervades the air and like an invisible force pulls the train into the station. 

spring

hints of green weighing the branches down, waving quietly outside the window. grass spotted with little white flowers, like scattered snow that never melts away, that will last till autumn comes. and the sun hangs high above caressing everything gently, like a mother's hug, like that comfort pat on the shoulder. the air is crisp and fresh and smell like spring - if it had a smell - but winter has not gone for long yet, not in this country where it leaves a trail of itself until it returns again, as if it had been pushed out of its rightful place, as if it resented the idea of changing seasons, as if it was overly possessive. or spring could be a facade, a mask, a play, an act, an illusion something not real, something that is nothing but false pretense, something to cover up that coldness, something that create hope and joy so to break them down again, something that makes people forget about their mistakes so that they'd do it again, something. really. it never really changes, only deliberately coalesces with our lives, and slowly we get used to it until we never know it is there anymore, until it becomes a habit, until it becomes who we are, until it makes us who we are. it's not really spring is it? there are times when the mask is not tight enough and it slips off a bit and the temperature drops and the shrilling wind carries the cold past and hit us in our faces; or like the sharp edges and corner of the glass table that we forget about until we kick it again; the impact hard enough to remind that winter is still here and it never really leaves.

that is, unless you fly back home.

hello!

a many thousand things have happened since i last wrote and for the past twenty minutes or so, i've been staring at this big block of white with the thin line appearing and disappearing incessantly. there are so many things i'd like to say at so many moments for the past year but i never had an idea of how to rather than where to begin with and this procrastination has taken its toll on me, with all these incidents now building up into this big ball of stories and emotions jumbled up inside my head. writing and keeping a record of this now feels strange to me, printing out images from my head into these characters, these words and occasionally looking up for a flamboyant word or phrase to show that i've not lose the touch to write. or maybe i already have. but for the past year or so i've been continuously asking myself through and through why do i write and what do i write about? i do not find it necessary to express my feelings in words anymore, not when now i have someone to share with; neither do i find an urge to translate images or that precise moment of life into words, not when now i do have a camera that will do the job for me; neither do i require to channel my wild imaginations of sorts on to this online platform, not when i am able to do it through producing videos. so, what really do i write about? 

i miss writing, this whole package of creativity bundled in words sleepless nights soft music in the earphones as well as that occasional cup of coffee and ten exact pieces of crackers - no more no less - and the silence of the streets that hums through the window in my room. i miss this tranquility when i write when i think of the next appropriate word to match the former when i pour out everything inside me and rearrange them into words and it feels like being immersed in deep waters and the moon rays dive through the waters and everything is still and silent and i have all the time i need in my pocket. it is like a time machine that connects all the emotions the memories of the past the present and the future every time i write. the same feeling that runs through my body and calming all my nerves and muscles telling them that everything's fine. then again, today i did not begin with the intention of writing about this and i digressed but the feeling's there again once more that feeling of tranquility there calmly flowing through my body and then i remember why i once loved writing and then it all comes down to the same question again:

what do i want to write about? 

welcome to the refuse room

where you are allowed to say no to anyone. children upon entering are allowed to say no to vegetables they don't like, to say no to classes they don't want to go, to say no to school, to say no to homework, to say no to curfew, to say no to punishment of any sort, to say no to sleeping earlier. grown ups upon entering are allowed to say no to any family/relationship obligations thrown at them, allowed to say no to questions which people expect a yes as an answer, allowed to say no when they feel like being mean and really really rude, allowed to say no to the confinement of this society the chains and barriers that hold them back from what they really want to be, allowed to say no and disregard of how the others feel, allowed to say no to those in power-disobeying direct orders, allowed to say no whenever they feel like it and allowed to not pretend and put on a smile that they don't mean it, allowed to say no to things that are not in their favor and make a big fuss out of it, allowed to say no to anything, everything and allowed to become a child once more when throwing tantrums and saying no is a privilege.